


All In The Moves

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Little Miracles [21]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Miguel shows off. Ryan ponders. It goes a bit sideways.
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Series: Little Miracles [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/9086
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25
Collections: Oz Magi





	All In The Moves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustandroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2019, Wish 10, Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan/Miguel  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: Love tap  
> Canon/AU/Either: either  
> Special Requests: Miguel puts on his boxing gloves and shows Ryan a few moves  
> Story/Art/Either: any
> 
> Alternate universe with (very, _very_ ) established relationship (that's changed quite a few things prison-wide, like a demented snow-ball). Time-wise somewhere between the end of the boxing matches and Busmalis' tunnel escape.  
> Also: I'm sorry, Miguel didn't _actually_ put on his boxing gloves. Oops?
> 
> And while archiving: I didn't actually write this story to fit in this universe, but I now realize it does, so I'm just gonna stick it here. Whoops.

Miguel's body is a thing of beauty: compact and muscled, perfectly toned in all the right places, like some kind of living sculpture. He hits the punching bag with determined purpose, long fingers carefully wrapped, every movement precise and controlled, as if executing a well-orchestrated dance.

Ryan loves watching him move like this almost as much as he loves having him in his arms (feeling him against his own body, warm and solid and _there_ , there _for Ryan alone_ )—something that Miguel, cocky little shit that he is, knows far too well: the hot little glances he throws in Ryan's direction every few punches are pure _Watch me_.

Perhaps just in case Ryan is not doing precisely that intently enough, or maybe just taking advantage of the near-empty gym to tease him even more, Miguel takes his shirt off, languorously wiping his gleaming chest and abs off with it, before hanging it in his back pocket with a sexy little smirk and resuming his work-out.

 _Show-off_.

He's got every right to, though, the handsome fuck—and besides, he's still hyped to be Oz's boxing champion.

Without knowing Ryan might have, _maybe_ , rigged the matches a little—just a little, just so his _insane_ cocky little shit didn't get completely creamed by Pancamo or Khan. (He's won a lot of cash in the process, but that's just a bonus: he'd had quite a few nightmares of Miguel lying in the infirmary, unrecognizable and solely breathing through a straw, while the whole damn thing was unfolding.)

Miguel was right in the fact that it has helped. If it wasn't for Hernandez's beady eyes still jealously glaring at his lover every time the ugly fuck is in the same room as them, Ryan might even have been tempted to call it a success: for now, at least, nobody _else_ wants to fuck with them. Miguel's earned enough respect to keep them both safe—from everyone but his old hermanos.

Ryan's only rigged two matches, trusting Miguel for the most part, and so being subtle enough to have flown under _everybody_ 's radar. (Even Miguel doesn't know, and if Ryan has his way, and he's made damn sure he will, he'll _never_ find out.) He's purposely _not_ betted on any fight Miguel wasn't involved in, and taken all the shit talks and homophobic slurs with an easy, knowing smirk, letting it all slide off him (nonetheless carefully cataloguing faces and names: playing it cool doesn't mean he's an idiot).

The gym has emptied of the last few stragglers, and Ryan knows, at this hour, it'll stay that way for a while: Miss Sally has just started, and they're basically the only two guys in here willing to miss it.

Miguel throws another hot little glance Ryan's way, all dark-eyed magnetism, lips parting under Ryan's stare and moving right back to punching the back with renewed intensity, muscles flexing beneath his skin, taut and strong, a tease all on their own.

Ryan can resist everything but living-breathing temptation: now they're alone, he _has_ to get closer—to touch, a little, slide a hand, feather-light, up the slightly damp, warm skin of Miguel's spine. Place a soft kiss on Miguel's shoulder blade, right above that mysteriously weird tattoo of his (that Miguel refuses to explain), to sooth away the shiver he's just caused.

And he finds himself caught, Miguel's arms suddenly around his waist, hands against the small of Ryan's back, in the same _second_ it's taken Miguel to turn—Miguel's full, soft lips warm on his the next, pressing chaste but _hungry_ as Ryan grasps at his arms, eyes instinctively fluttering close, breath hitching on wordless yearning.

Neither of them is far enough gone to believe they can fuck in here, though: _caution_ has always been, and will always be, the predominant part of survival in this place.

It doesn't change the fact that Ryan's never too good at stopping—but Miguel takes over when he can't. Like _now_ : breaking the kiss before it can go further, get truly heated, softly brushing his lips along Ryan's jaw instead, nuzzling under his ear, breathing warm and real against the sensitized skin, just holding Ryan close.

Letting himself be held in return, Ryan's arms tight around his shoulders, the back of his neck, fingers clutching a little at every part of him that falls under them. He smells like sweat and the same cheap soap they all have, and it's a bit mad how much Ryan doesn't want to let go.

"Come on, baby," Miguel whispers at last (hotly, against the shell of Ryan's ear), sounding as reluctant as Ryan feels (doubly so now), letting go _first_ , "let me show you a few moves."

Ryan squints at him: there's a few things about him that Miguel, though generally sneakily perceptive, hasn't quite grasped yet.

Like the fact that Ryan really only knows anything about boxing because of his brother, and _only_ because of him: Ryan himself is the con-artist, the puppeteer. Good with his tongue (in far more ways than one), swift with his mind. He seduces and manipulates, and yes, can do sleight-of-hand tricks too—but he's not even remotely close to decent at any kind of physical fighting _at all_.

Which is not exactly something he's ever told Miguel—or anyone else, for that matter. (Cyril knows— _knew_ , possibly, with the way he is now, but even with him it's not something Ryan's ever _said_.) The only ones who know he sucks at fighting are the fuckers who've physically attacked him, and with the way Cyril always had his back, _before_ , that's actually a very small number—and most of them have met tragic, premature deaths. (Which is unfortunately still not something that has befallen dear old Dad.)

"Here," Miguel says, presenting him with his well-worn pair of boxing gloves, "put those on."

Ryan takes one look at them and answers: "I'll take the wraps." _There_ is another thing he's never admitted to anybody (not even Cyril): boxing gloves make him feel trapped—something about not really being able to remove them on his own, not without using his teeth like some prey animal in a snare. He doesn't like needing help, not even for the smallest things. (Especially in this place: small things, in here, can easily become terrifying in less than the blink of an eye.)

"It'll work better with those," Miguel cajoles, still holding out the gloves for Ryan to slip his hands into, expression hopeful.

And really, Ryan hates those things. But he knows it's irrational. And there's no one else here, _and_ he trusts Miguel.

So he puts on the gloves, and Miguel tightens the laces, and yeah, Ryan instantly feels trapped. He thinks he might even prefer handcuffs to these: at least with _those_ , he can still use his fingers. It's profoundly disturbing on a very primal level, to not be able to grasp anything.

"Alright!" Miguel exclaims with a grin, very much the proud, enthusiastic teacher, "let's see what you can do."

What Ryan can do is very, _very_ basic, and Miguel doesn't look too impressed as he holds the bag for him. In fact, he's starting to look a bit perturbed, probably at how ridiculously _easy_ it is to hold that fucking bag while Ryan punches it: obviously, he's clueing in.

"Throw your weight into it," Miguel instructs, "like _this_." He lets go to demonstrate, a powerful series of hard hits with nothing but his wrapped knuckles, muscles coiled tight in his whole body, and the bag lurches an impressive amount until he grabs it to stop it. "Go on," he encourages Ryan with optimistic eyes, getting back behind it.

Ryan's not quite ready to admit defeat. (To admit how helpless he'd actually be, if he was completely on his own and only had his fists to defend himself with.) So he takes a deep breath, drawing his trapped hands back up, and does his best to copy the movements—and his right glove slides on the bag, catching Miguel on the jaw.

Left side, from below. It's probably not that hard (and Miguel's sure had worse), but it's enough to snap his head sideways and make him stumble back a few steps.

It's enough to send Ryan's mind _spinning_.

"Get me out of these," he hisses, fruitlessly already trying to get those damn gloves off. He can feel his heart beating too loud—can't seem to fucking catch his breath.

"Sure," he fuzzily hears Miguel answer, body already moving toward him. And then, softly, catching Ryan's wrists to stop his useless struggling: "Hey baby, easy, easy. You okay?"

Ryan gives up the pointless fighting with a forced deep breath. "I'm okay," he mumbles, almost automatically, as Miguel unlaces the gloves (sets him free).

He's not, really, unable to look Miguel in the face—but Miguel sees _right_ through him: he backs Ryan to sit on a workbench with quiet, gentle strength, kneeling in front of him, absentmindedly dropping the gloves on the floor next to them. He hasn't let go of Ryan's wrists, and it's utterly absurd, how reassuring Ryan finds this not-so-simple touch, when it's not something he could even just _tolerate_ from anyone else.

"Talk to me, baby," Miguel says, voice low and even, and something in Ryan cracks a little: he can't help the shiver, at the tone, the touch, the _care_ behind it all.

Miguel just holds him a little tighter, steadily, patiently grounding him down, like nobody else has ever managed to. Still, Ryan can't voice it, quite, not past the screaming in his head and the lump in his throat.

But.

 _I hit you_ , he thinks almost hysterically, feeling all of five years old and like he needs to crawl somewhere cramped and dark and hide, his father's shadow a nearly-tangible live thing threatening his sanity: becoming like him has always been what Ryan was the most petrified of.

Miguel can read him too damn well, always: "Hey," he whispers, making Ryan's eyes skitter back up to his, "it was an accident, you know that," he adds softly, "I'm fine—doesn't hurt or anything."

He _looks_ fine, too, face so fucking sincere, jaw not swollen—not even reddened, but Ryan's gaze still locks on the spot _he's hit_.

Miguel's thumbs start tracing comforting little circles on Ryan's wrists. "Ryan, seriously, stop that," he insists, gentle but firm, a corner of his lips quirking up slightly, "it was nothing—barely even a love tap."

Ryan can't quite smile back: love taps are not really something he believes in. He doesn't find anything compatible about those two words, and it reminds him too much of his Dad. Taps hurt. They're never out of love.

 _Accident_ , he reminds himself, and _he's fine_ , but it doesn't help much, and before he knows it he's slipped out of Miguel's grasp, (trembling) hands reaching for Miguel's face, fingertips shakily brushing _that spot_.

Miguel just looks at him, patient, steady and unflinching, his eyes deep and soulful. Ryan's hands drift to his shoulders, and he finds himself leaning over, clutching at little at Miguel's skin as he bends to place a soft, lingering kiss just _there_ on Miguel's jaw, on that imaginary bruise, like it can soothe away everything.

It's a childish wish, but perhaps it does work a little: Miguel's eyes have fluttered closed, his hands just resting on Ryan's thighs, but he doesn't let Ryan pull back far, catching his mouth with his, lips parted—a familiar, wordless needy plead. Ryan responds in kind, automatically, gratefully, Miguel's hands sliding up his back to bury in his hair, Miguel's whole body rising to meet him properly, and there's warm breath and tongues and that little nibbling tug on his lower lip Miguel _knows_ drives him nuts, makes him want nothing but more and more kisses.

Miguel is the one that has to end it, again, resting their foreheads together, one index finger over Ryan's lips, as if that's the only thing stopping him from sweetly taking Ryan's mouth again. And Ryan can't help smiling a little under it, breathless and wanting—but with his mind quiet again. _Steady_.

Still, there's something to figure out: "We're gonna need a good story," he says, fingertips on Miguel's jaw again, just not trembling this time. If there's shades of regret in his voice, well, it's not something he can help. (Or even wants to.)

"Nah," Miguel drawls, smooth and easy, straightening back, "I'm not gonna bruise, baby." And, one side of his mouth climbing up: "I'm not like you, I don't bruise like a flower."

Which Ryan _knows_ is _completely_ on purpose, but—

" _I don't bruise like a flower_ ," he hisses incredulously, effectively side-tracked.

"Like a peach?" Miguel teases gently, half-smile soft, eyes pools of dark loving warmth—helplessly streaked with guilt, like a mirror of Ryan's soul. He's gone back to sitting on his knees in front of Ryan, lightly holding Ryan's hips, arms snugly encompassing him, and he's tenderly rubbing hot little circles on Ryan's hipbones through his jeans with the pad of his thumbs.

 _Oh_ , Ryan thinks suddenly, understanding: Miguel grips him too tight, sometimes, when they fuck—caught in the moment, too hungry for him, never meaning to hurt. Ryan _never_ minds, fucking masochist he's turned out to be, actually _likes_ the little blue-purple fingermarks he ends up with when that happens (likes to have Miguel imprinted on his skin), but Miguel always gets _this_ look in his eyes afterwards, never quite abating completely, even when Ryan sees him looking at the bruises and plays the _I like it from you_ card. (Even when Miguel laughs a little at that, and kisses Ryan hard and hot and so, _so_ sweet.)

"I don't bruise like a peach, either," Ryan grumbles, but it's mostly for show, and he knows Miguel can see it.

Miguel does that warm, cocky half-smirk of his. "Well, see, baby, that's something I hope to never really find out," he says, and Ryan knows it's only half-teasing, too.

(Miguel's body is a thing of beauty, but it's got nothing on his heart.)


End file.
